


Little Birds

by ileolai



Series: They're Homosexual, Susan (Good Omens) [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Experimental Style, Gen, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Short One Shot, Slice of Life, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), crowley is nice to birds, e. e. cummings inspired rambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 21:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20880980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ileolai/pseuds/ileolai
Summary: Crowley brings home things in his pockets.





	Little Birds

**Author's Note:**

> (i who have died am alive again today,  
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth  
day of life and love and wings and of the gay  
great happening illimitably earth)
> 
> \-- E. E. Cummings

Crowley brings home things in his pockets. Little feathery creatures, birds blown out of their nests. He keeps them under a lamplight in the sunroom, in a shoebox, safe and warm. Tends to them carefully until they can be freed. (No miracles now, it might draw suspicion to their little cottage.) If they can't be saved, they can't. He folds in on himself a little when that happens. Goes out and finds more of them. Can't help himself.  
  
Look at him with his shoebox, this rattleshack of bones and edges and too-sharp teeth, fussing over a featherball with a pipette in hand, quietly encouraging it to eat, willing it to live. Latest intended victim of the neighbourhood tom cat. (Crowley suggested making “bastard casserole” out of the thing once, went into disturbing detail. He wouldn't though. Probably.) He is soft in spite of himself, in spite of everything else.  
  
Aziraphale clutches a cup of tea, watching him from the doorway. His heart aches a welcome sort of ache. How did he come to be blessed with this cranky clattering bag of contradictions? He wants to squeeze him, make his doe-soft snake eyes bulge out of his head. (He could if he wanted to. No one gets a say in that anymore, no one except them.) Crowley's stubborn lovely warm heart brought them here, to this cottage in a garden on an island in the ocean of a planet that is theirs (they are safe.)  
  
He wants to bury his face in the curve of that shoulder, curl his fingers in the ridiculous red hair. Tell him over and over how gentle his slender-boned soft warm hands are, how kind his weary stubborn scarred soft heart is. He can do that later. There is plenty of time. (Crowley will groan and protest and blush and he’ll keep saying it.) He can say it whenever and with everything in him that ached to say it for centuries. With a mouthful of buttered crumpet in the mornings. Breathe it into his mouth and skin and jumblebag bones at night. (I love you I love you you doolally fool!) There's all the time in the world.  
  
Look at it all, look what they've made for themselves, a whole future for themselves spilling out of their home, across the sun-soaked green. Think of Crowley rattling around his beloved marigolds and tickseed, lavender and zinnia. Think of Crowley filling the place with scritchscratching feathery things in shoeboxes, grumbling about cat casserole. Think of jam and scones in the afternoon, safe snug warm nights together finally. Their little cottage in the great green misty swell, warmed with love. It's all theirs, no one gets a say in it anymore. (Let them try. Let them try and take this chthonic oddity and his soft warm gentle stubborn bird heart again. Try it.) The Principality of the South Downs sips his tea.  
  
Crowley sees him. Crowley smiles his lopsided smile. He is so beautiful, the absolute mess of him, the disaster of bones. Look now, his feathery convalescent has taken to his offer (_little birds are dining_...) and Mr. Rattleshack Hellsnake is so pleased with his success. (... That book is around here somewhere, he should find it. Yes, let Crowley find him in the study room later. Pull him into the sun-warm sofa. Tell him ‘til you’re out of breath tell him I love you I love you)

  
Aziraphale smiles, content, loving loved soft and warm. He shuffles off to his books, leaving Crowley to his task.  
  
(They have all the time in the world.)


End file.
